


Venia

by nekosmuse_archive (nekosmuse)



Category: Third Watch
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Dark, Domestic Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Happy, Stalking, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23552446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekosmuse/pseuds/nekosmuse_archive
Summary: Written pre 2005. Posting for archival purposes.Bosco finally succumbs to his darkside.
Relationships: Maurice Boscorelli/Faith Yokas





	Venia

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: The following story contains mature subject matter. Reader discretion is advised (aka heed multiple trigger warnings in tags).
> 
> In Latin, Venia is translated to mean Forgiveness.

The headlights reflect against the rising mist, casting an eerie glow. Black asphalt disappears beneath ghostly white, becoming part of the surrounding landscape. Only the thin yellow line, barely visible under the fog, warns of bends and curves. He doesn't slow, his need greater then self preservation.

Three years since he's seen her. Three years, and still she consumes his thoughts, her image forever burned into his conscious. Three years, and still he longs for her. The road turns east, bringing him closer to his destination. He's coming home, knowing he won't be welcome, but no longer able to care.

He slows, as if to draw out this moment, stretch it on into eternity. The highway is deserted, save for the occasional transport truck. It's late. He feels as if he's been awake for days, and yet he suspects it's longer. He also knows he hasn't truly been awake since he left.

Gradually, the landscape changes. Fields are replaced by parking lots, rivers by freeways, and trees by buildings. Unnatural light illuminates the night sky. Streetlamps block out the fog, clearing the air. It's as though nature isn't welcome here. Isn't needed. He accelerates.

The road flies beneath him, a never ending blur of grey. A wave of nervousness overwhelms him, threatening to send him into a panic attack. They've been frequent these past few months. Always her face, her image. She haunts him, cold blue eyes mocking his existence.

He swerves to the right, coming to rest on the shoulder. He takes slow, measured breaths, bringing the stale car air deep into his lungs. He will not let this consume him. Moments pass, his vision clearing. Slowly now, back out onto the road.

~*~

The paper crumples in his hand. Not a deliberate act, but unconscious, anger tightening his fists. She wants him gone. The words order of protection still dance across his vision. He hurls it across the room, missing the garbage can by feet.

He tried, everything in his power, he tried. Tried to make her understand. Tried to make her listen. Tried not to hurt her. But she's stubborn. Refusing to acknowledge his presence, his need. All he wants is forgiveness. A small thing.

He knows he won't find it. Not here. Not now. Leaving the crumpled paper on the floor, he shoulders his bag, heading out the door. He doesn't look back, knowing there's nothing left for him.

~*~

The tolls at the George Washington bridge are empty, something he's grateful for. He doesn't want to stop, doesn't want to waste time. Time is of the utmost importance. He's already lost so much. There wasn't much to begin with.

Despite his urgency, he slows, taking in his first sight of the city. It seems misplaced, foreign. Millions of lights reflect in the river, dancing across the water. He continues to crawl along, wanting to savor the moment, etch it into his memory.

He unrolls the window, breathing deep, filling his lungs with air. It's sickly sweet, triggering a wave of memories. She's there, swimming through his mind. Her laughter, light and taunting. Her smile, warm and welcoming.

The memory vanishes along with the bridge, bringing him into New York proper. He exits the freeway, heading deeper into the city. Buildings loom around him, their enormity making him feel claustrophobic. He doesn't hesitate. He knows the way to her apartment. Knows it better then the back of his hand.

~*~

He's tired of waiting for her. Tired of watching from a distance. Tired of being hung up on. Tired of being turned away. He just wants his life back. Their life. He wants to wake up next to her, wake up in her arms. Argue about who's going to make coffee, and who gets to use the shower first.

The hall stretches on endlessly. Was it always this long? Was it always this dark? The light above him is burnt out, shrouding him in shadows. He's spent far too much time in shadows.

He approaches her door. He knocks, cringing at the sound, too loud. His body tenses as he hears her footsteps. She pulls the door open, the chain securely fastened. She frowns, her posture becoming rigid. She closes the door just as quickly, blocking him out.

_Faith?_

_Faith?_

_Come on. Faith?_

He brings his fist up to the door, pounding on it with violent intensity. She doesn't respond.

_Faith! Just open the fucking door. Why the hell won't you just talk to me?_

When she doesn't reply, he throws himself at the door, slamming his shoulder against it. It buckles, sawdust raining down on him. Again. The frame shifts, the door inching forward. He just needs to see her. Make her understand. She doesn't know what she's doing.

_Faith, come on. Please. God, why are you doing this? I said I was sorry alright. I said it. You think I didn't mean it? I just want to fix this, please?_

He's begging now. He can't lose her. He can't live without her. Doesn't she know that? Doesn't she care? His hand moves to the doorknob, turning against lock, rattling the metal. He fights it, knowing she'll relent if only she can see what she's done to him.

It doesn't budge, the lock not yielding to his desperation. The door sits on loose frame, hanging by sheer will alone. He could break it down. But he doesn't want to frighten her. He's scared her enough already. He knows that. He's not completely without reason.

~*~

He pulls along side her building, parking the car. He doesn't move, not trusting his own feet. Not trusting himself. Glancing up, he can easily make out her apartment. She's left a light on. He stares at the window, exalting in how close he is, how close she is.

A silhouette passes by the glass, the shadow of a woman. He'd recognize her anywhere. He knows every inch of her being. Every nuance. She's gone in the blink of an eye, disappearing behind a corner. He holds his breath.

He turns away, resting his hands on the steering wheel, his thumbs tapping a beat only he can hear. His head falls back, coming to rest on the seat. He isn't used to the city. The air seems damp and heavy. It covers him, pressing against his skin.

His eyes open, he hadn't realized he'd closed them. He notices the light has now vanished, her apartment dark. She's sleeping now. She should have been sleeping hours ago.

He wonders briefly if he should go in, try and talk to her. He still isn't sure what he'll say, or whether she'll even listen. His hand stops mere inches from the door handle, frozen in indecision. He decides against it, settling back to wait. He's waited this long, one more night can't hurt.

~*~

He waits by the front doors, knowing she'll be home soon. He hasn't spoken with her in two months, the longest two of his life. Light drizzle falls from an overcast sky, soaking through his jacket. He pulls it tight, leaning into the darkness.

His head comes up at the sound of approaching footsteps. He can barely make out her form through the haze, but knows it is her. Her head is down, intent on the ground. Her steps are shuffled, defeated. He did this to her. He did. And he hates himself for it.

She pulls keys from her pocket, the sound breaking through the otherwise silent night. He steps out into the light, keeping his distance.

_Faith._

She spins, the keys falling to the ground. They land in a small puddle, splashing against the concrete. For a moment she stares at them, as though contemplating how long it will take her to reach them, how long before she can be inside.

_Please, I just want to talk to you._

Her attention is once again drawn to his face, her eyes wide and fearful. She tightens her jaw, resolve seeping into her stance.

_We have nothing to talk about. You shouldn't be here._

He takes a tentative step towards her, slowly, cautiously. She retreats, her hand moving to the small of her back. She's armed. Why shouldn't she be?

_I'm not going to hurt you. I just, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry._

He steps back, giving her space. He doesn't want this to end badly, but knows that the possibility exists. He just wants to take her into his arms, murmur words of comfort, words of love. Doesn't she know how much he loves her? How much he needs her?

_Go home._

He doesn't have a home, but he doesn't tell her that. She won't care, and if she does, he doesn't deserve her concern.

~*~

Sunlight filters through the driver side window, causing him to stir. He blinks, his eyes adjusting to the light. Running his hands through his hair, he sits forward, stretching out the nights' kinks. He's half tempted to get out of the car, but he's afraid she'll see him. He isn't ready for that yet.

His eyes immediately seek out her window. Movement catches his eye and he squints, trying to make out her form. She lingers near the pane, her back to him. He watches her, waiting until she moves away before finally relaxing. She was dressed. She'll be coming down soon.

He sinks low into the seat, knowing she won't recognize the car, but worried she might recognize him. Not that she'll be looking, but better safe then sorry. He just wishes he didn't have to hide.

She exits her building, the door slamming shut behind her. He waits for her to round the corner before putting the car in drive, following behind. He stays back, not wanting to get too close.

He follows her to the precinct, parking on the next street over. By the time he makes it around the block, she's already inside. He ducks into the alley beside the firehouse, knowing he'll be overlooked.

He leans against the building, the brick scratching through his shirt. His eyes focus on the precinct doors. He's waiting for her. He feels out of place, disconnected. This isn't where he belongs. But it's where she belongs, and he belongs with her.

The doors open, a familiar sight filling his vision. Sully. He never liked the man, and is honestly surprised to find he's still a cop. He was certain he would have retired by now. The door opens again, he expects to see Ty, but instead she fills his sight.

He doesn't wonder where the young cop is, her presence enough to distract him from the thought. She's just standing there, gazing into the sun. She takes his breath away.

He watches as she moves to the patrol car, climbing in with the grace only she possesses. She doesn't drive, content to ride shotgun. He smiles, knowing some things will never change. Sully follows behind, his face a mask of jaded stone.

He watches as they pull away, her figure disappearing behind a corner. Only then does he step out of the alley, onto the street. His hands run nervously through his hair. He knows this is dangerous. Knows she could have easily spotted him. And he doesn't want her to know he's here. Not yet.

~*~

He doesn't know whether or not to be relieved or angry when she drops the charges. She should know better, she's seen this sort of thing too many times not to. He's told to stay away from her. He'll lose his job over this, not that it matters anymore. Nothing matters without her. She's all he has. All he's ever had.

He checks into a motel, knowing she won't let him back into the house, and knowing there is nowhere else to go. He wants that moment back. All he's ever wanted was her, a life with her, a family with her. And now, now he has nothing, and it's his fault.

His eyes fall on the phone, his body longing to hear her voice. Holding his breath, he picks up the receiver, placing it to his ear. He dials the number, listening to the metallic ring through the wire. She picks up after three.

_Please don't hang up._

Silence.

_Faith, I'm sorry, god, I'm so sorry._

Silence.

_Faith, say something, please._

_Don't call here again._

Her voice is cut off, replaced by dial tone. He slams the phone down, angry at her reaction. He didn't expect anything else, but it still bothers him. All he wants to do is apologize. All he wants is her forgiveness.

~*~

He's not sure how long he spent following her around the city, praying she didn't see him. Too many hours. The day has long since dwindled to night, and now he sits in front of her building, waiting.

She came home about an hour ago, but he has yet to find the nerve to see her. He finally manages to force himself from the car, crossing the street to her apartment.

He pauses in front of her building, glancing up at her window. The lights are off, the apartment bathed in darkness. He's tempted to simply climb the stairs, knock on her door, but he doesn't want to wake her. He just needs to see her, look at her.

He opts for the fire escape, his rational side protesting the decision. He ignores the warning, reaching up and pulling down the ladder. The metal is cool and dry, the paint flaking at his touch.

The clanging of his boots against the stairs rings out, reminding him to be cautious. For a moment he wonders what he's doing. Why this is so important. He should have just left, drank himself into an early grave. It would have been easier for both of them.

But he knows. He knows she wants this too. Some part of her at least. Wants to see him, know him again. And so he climbs, each step bringing him that much closer. Her window comes into view. He notices her curtains, billowing out into the night.

He pauses, inhaling the scent that instantly reminds him of home. Faith. Ducking down, he climbs through the window. The living room is unchanged, even after all this time. The same things, the same furniture, the same rug.

He takes his time, glancing about the room like a nervous thief. His eyes come to rest on a familiar picture. Crossing the room, he picks it up, the frame smooth under his fingertips. He smiles, remembering the day the photograph was taken.

He realizes that the picture is no longer him. The image is confident, certain, young and enthusiastic. Not him. He's old, tired, broken. He's half tempted to throw it against the wall, watch as it shatters into a million pieces. He doesn't.

Instead he moves to the bedroom, pushing the door open. Her scent is stronger here, heavier. Soft soap and perspiration, heady and sweet. He steps inside.

~*~

They don't let him ride with her to the hospital. Instead, he's placed in cuffs, roughly shoved into the back of a squad car. He wants to protest, but knows he has no right. He did this to her. He hurt her. And he deserves to be here.

_Will they let me know if she's okay?_

They don’t answer him, not that he expects them to. Why would they, what possible explanation could he give. Somehow all his previous reasons seem hollow, wrong. What right did he have to make the decision for her? What right did he have to question the decision she made?

He remains silent, staring at his hands, folded neatly in his lap. Only now, they don’t look like his hands. They're unfamiliar. His hands aren't capable of hurting Faith. His hands protect. He's a cop. A cop, fighting against monsters like himself.

~*~

Staring down at her sleeping form, he's glad she's alone. He watches her, the slow rising and falling of her chest. The slight furrow of her brow. Her lips, slightly parted, pushing air in and out. His hand reaches out, longing to touch her.

She stirs, turning onto her side, her hair falling to obscure her face. He wills his feet to move, bringing him to the edge of the bed. He kneels, his fingers reaching out to brush aside the stray strands. She turns into his touch, a smile playing across her lips. He closes his eyes, lost in the feel of her. Her scream forces them open.

She clutches the sheet to her chest, hiding her nudity. Her eyes are wide, frightened. She shies away, confusion turning to horror at finding him there.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you, I just… I needed to see you," he explains, his tone soothing.

"How? How did you get in here?" she asks, her eyes darting to the nightstand. She wets her lips.

"Fire escape. You know, you shouldn't leave your window open like that," he tells her, laughing softly.

"Leave," she orders, her voice faltering.

"I just want to talk… Please Faith, please. I can't, I can't live without you anymore," he replies, his panic rising. She can't send him away, she can't.

"There's nothing to talk about, just leave," she repeats, her tone gaining confidence.

He frowns, irritated by her lack of understanding. Her eyes shift back to the nightstand. He follows her gaze, his eyes coming to rest on her off duty weapon. Her body tenses, giving away her intent. She lunges towards the gun, the movement causing the bed to creak.

He tackles her halfway, pinning her under his weight. Holding her arms about her head, he retrieves the Glock, emptying the clip and tossing it across the room.

"Why would you do that Faith? I wasn't going to hurt you," he questions, hurt, angry.

"Bosco please, just go, leave. I won't report this, just please," she pleads.

He closes his eyes, fighting against the rising tide of rage threatening to consume his soul. He wants to leave, wants to forget her, forget this life. But his need for her overwhelms logic.

"This didn't have to turn out this way. If you'd just listen to me. That's all. Just listen. But no, you don't listen, you never fucking listened," he practically screams.

His fingers tighten around her wrist, so tight he can feel the bone, feel her flesh giving way beneath the pressure.

"I never meant for any of this to happen Faith," he continues, leaning forward and inhaling her scent. God how he's missed the smell of her hair, the fragrance of her skin.

She squirms beneath him, bucking up in an effort to break free. He moves closer, squeezing her thighs with his knees, tightening his grasp on her wrists. She turns her face away, tears spilling onto her cheeks.

"Bosco, please."

"You just don't get it, do you? You think I like this? You think I want this? I just wanted to fucking talk to you, apologize. But no, you just close yourself off, from –me- Faith, from me!" he yells, anger seeping to the surface.

He's not even sure why he's angry, or who he's angry with. Her for not caring. Or himself for caring too much. He hates himself right now, knowing he's pushing past a barrier he swore he'd never cross. Never again.

She remains silent, her struggles stilling. She doesn't know how to respond to him, how to react. He maintains his hold, not trusting to let go.

"You know I'd never do anything to hurt you, right Faith?" he asks, desperate now.

"You –are- hurting me," she replies, her tone detached and oddly calm.

"That's only because you wouldn't listen," he explains.

As if to prove his point, he releases her arms, holding his hands out where she can see them. She glances at him, bringing her arms across her chest. She's leery, unsure whether to trust the gesture. He makes no move to get off of her. She uses his moment of uncertainty to bring her hands to his chest, roughly pushing him back.

He falls back, allowing her to slide of the bed. Frantically she searches for the gun, spotting it in the far corner of the room. She dives for it. He intercepts, his arms pulling her back, throwing her against the wall. She lands with a sickening thud.

"Now why would you do that? I want to be able to trust you, but you keep pushing me away," he shouts.

~*~

He stares down at her, his body shaking, his anger long since dissipated. What has he done? She stopped fighting after a while, knowing it was only making the situation worse. She hasn't moved in what seems like hours, although he's almost certain it's only been minutes. Her eyes are both swollen shut, her cheeks bruised. Blood pours from a wound on her temple, dripping onto the area rug.

He swallows a mouthful of bile, pushing aside the urge to vomit. His Faith. He hurt his Faith. Just because she lied. Just because she was too scared to come to him. Just because she thought this was her only choice.

Steady now, he walks across the room. The phone seems heavy in his hand, almost too much to bear. He dials, his hands shaking uncontrollably. He waits patiently, looking anywhere but the rug. Block it out, it didn't happen. He's not his father.

_Yes. I just beat my wife. She needs help._

His eyes close at the words, it's as though saying them aloud makes them real. Makes them true. He doesn't want them to be true. Never. Not him. He isn't capable of something like this.

He gives his address, his tone calm, betraying everything he's feeling inside. Not knowing what else to do, he sits and waits, his eyes fixed on the back wall.

~*~

The rope chafes her wrists, digging into the skin. She struggles against her bonds, her body slowly losing to pain and exhaustion. He leans into her, heat rolling off his body. She tries to shy away, but remains trapped between him and the mattress.

He caresses her face, his fingers skimming across her skin. She holds her breath, swallowing in an effort to quell the nausea. He seems mesmerized by her, captivated. His touch is familiar, sickeningly so. She once longed for his touch, craved it. Now she recoils from it, wanting anything but.

The sheet remains a twisted ball, covering only her midsection. She feels naked, and not from the lack of clothing. Open, vulnerable. She knows he still loves her, in his own deranged way. And she hates him for it.

Two years she spent terrified. Two years crying herself to sleep. Two years missing him. And two years wondering what went wrong. She knows now. Even though she's spent the last year pushing him from her mind, trying to rebuild her life. In this moment, she knows.

He has his own demons, everyone does. His are just worse than most. She should have seen it coming. She knew his history, knew the skeletons from his childhood still haunted him. But she was certain he had overcome them. Certain he was different. Certain he would never hurt her. Now she can't imagine him not hurting her.

"Look at me," he commands.

She's ignoring him, again. He hates it when she does that. Blocks him out like he's not there, like he's not worthy of her attention. He is worthy. He knows that. He made a mistake. Just one mistake. He is worthy of forgiveness. And she will forgive him. She will.

She turns to face him, her eyes cold, hard. He forces his expression to soften, trying to tell her it's alright. There was a time when her eyes reflected nothing but love. A time when he could read everything through those eyes. Now, they are blank, not even anger or fear reflecting back at him.

He feels bad, keeping her like this, but he knows she'll only try to hurt him. And she has, more then once. Three years of pain because of her. Because she refused to listen. Refused to care.

He's playing with her hair now, running his fingers through silky strands. It's longer then she used to wear it, and lighter. He thinks he prefers it darker, more natural, but doesn't comment.

"You remember our wedding? You remember that dress you wore?" he asks, his tone soft.

She doesn't answer, her lips tightly sealed in defiance. He doesn't mind, he remembers. She wore white, even though she wasn't entitled to. She was stunning. He couldn't stop staring at her, couldn't stop wanting her. Even then, she was all he thought of. All he wanted.

"We danced all night, with you in that dress," he recollects.

He doesn't know what he hopes to accomplish, maybe trigger some happy memory, make her smile. He misses her smile. She doesn't respond, and he becomes angry, irritated.

"You remember our wedding night?" he continues, breathy this time.

He remembers the night all too vividly. They'd danced all night again, only a different dance, a private dance. He misses that too, misses the feel of her skin next to his.

His hands leave her hair, moving back to her face, tracing along her jaw line. She tries to turn away, but he stops her, forcing her attention back to him. She stays still this time, blinking in an effort to keep back the tears.

He traces a path down to her neck, across her shoulders. She bits her lip, promising herself she won't cry out. He continues lower, pushing aside the sheet, revealing the pale expanse of her breast. Cupping her, he smiles, leaning forward to take her in his mouth.

She does cry out then, a muffled sob. He ignores her, wanting and needed her to feel this, feel him. He just wants her to remember, remember that he is capable of tenderness, capable of love.

Pulling away, he glances down at her, his smile widening. Leaning forward, he hovers over her lips, his breath hot and sticky against her skin. She closes her eyes, wanting only for this to end.

"Your body remembers. You can't tell me it doesn't," he whispers.

He kisses her then, softly, pressing his lips to her. She remains limp beneath him, the inaction only intensifying his anger, his hurt. He presses his tongue against her teeth, growling when she resists him.

Becoming frustrated, he bits down, pulling her bottom lip between his own teeth, drawing blood. She whimpers, but keeps her teeth clenched, not wanting to offer him any sort of victory.

"What do I have to do Faith? What do I have to do to prove to you how much I need you?" he asks suddenly, pulling back.

"Leave," she responds.

"You know I can't. I can't," he tells her.

He shakes his head. Doesn't she understand? He can't just leave. He needs her too much to walk away. He tried it once. It nearly killed him.

"I don't want you here. It's over between us. I don't love you anymore," she tells him.

He stares at her, not believing her words. She does love him. She has to. No one else ever has. No one else ever will. She can't mean it. She can't.

"No, no, no," he chants.

She uses his moment of confusion to struggle against the rope. It tears into her flesh, opening a wound. Blood drips down her arm, falling onto the sheets, staining them red. He stares at the blood in horror, that night flashing through his mind. None of this would have happened if she'd been honest with him. If she'd just fucking told him. This is her fault. And here she is, still punishing him.

"No."

He roughly grabs her hands, pulling them back up, tightening her bonds. She cries out, pain radiating through her. He presses her back onto the bed, his body covering hers. Her struggles begin anew, fighting against him.

He reaches between them, pulling at the sheet still covering her from him. He doesn't remember her being this pale, this thin. He wonders briefly if she's sick again. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore.

"Please, please don't," she begs.

"Shhh," he coos.

His attempt to soothe her backfires and she bucks up, fighting with renewed determination. She manages to land several blows, despite the restrictions of her bonds.

Anger replaces need, and he is angry. God is he angry. Gone is the need to show her affection, the need to show her tenderness. He doesn't care that he's being rough, it's the least she deserves.

He feels as though he's watching himself from above, horrified at what he's doing. Even after she succumbs to unconsciousness, he continues. Her fault. He hears himself screaming, begging his body to stop. It's no use.

~*~

He walks the streets for hours, trying to reason her logic, trying to find some way to forgive her. He comes up empty handed, this can't be forgiven. It just can't. He breathes deep, hoping the cool night air will quell his anger, freeze his betrayal. It doesn't.

He tears his eyes off the pavement, noticing their building looming in front of them. How long has he been walking? How many loops around the block? It doesn't matter anymore. It just doesn't. He heads inside.

He finds the door unlocked, irritation flashing through him. Doesn't she know it's not safe? She should know better. She's a cop. He pushes inside, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. She didn't leave the light on. She always leaves a light on.

New found anger courses through his body. He can't remember the last time he was this angry. Can't remember the last time he wanted to hurt someone. He wants her to feel even a fraction of the pain he feels. Just an ounce of it. Enough to know what she did. She fucking destroyed a part of him. Literally.

He storms into the bedroom, finding her lying on her side, her body curled into a protective ball. Flicking on the light, he waits for her to sit, ignoring the tears marring her cheeks. She doesn't deserve tears, this was her choice.

_Get up._

He doesn't mean to sound so detached, but in a way he's glad. He doesn't want her to know how much this has affected him. She blinks, not making any motion to leave. Practically growling, he grabs her arms, pulling her from the bed.

_I said, get up._

_Boz, please, please._

She struggles against him, trying to find her way into his arms. He pushes her away, roughly. She falls back, her body slamming into the nightstand. The lamp falls to the floor, shattering on impact. She's frightened now.

_Boz?_

He grabs her again, ignoring her cries and protest as he drags her into the living room. He's beyond caring if he hurts her. She deserves to hurt, deserves the pain and discomfort. A real man knows how to keep his woman in line, son.

~*~

He can hear the approach of sirens. The sound resonates through his body, causing his blood to hum. They still fill him with excitement, not fear. Even though he knows he should be afraid, he remains oddly calm.

He crosses the living room, glancing down at the area rug. It's the same, the stain long since scrubbed out. It's still there though; he can see it, feel its presence. Soap can't remove the memory. New stains have been added to his guilt, they weigh him down, pulling until his legs buckle, sending him to his knees.

He's acutely aware of the cold steal in his hand. The gun seems light, and for a moment he pictures letting it go, watching it float to the ceiling. He tightens his grip, his head swimming. Blood covers his shirt, his hands. Everywhere. So much blood. So many stains.

The sirens become louder, deafening now. He tenses, estimating his time. A few minutes, no more. Enough. It's enough. Closing his eyes, he brings the weapon to his temple. He squeezes the trigger, adding to the stains.

All he wanted was forgiveness.

~*~

He doesn't know whether or not to laugh or cry, but really, all he wants to do is hurt her. Now, after everything they've been through, she pulls this. His body quivers, shaking almost uncontrollably, and for the life of him he can't understand why he doesn't react.

Words dance across his tongue, trying so desperately to pass his lips. They remain frozen, immobilized, and he just stares at her. As though sensing his anger, she steps back, her body pressing against the edge of the counter. He doesn't move, only continues to stare at her, wanting and needing to say something, but unable to.

_Boz, say something._

Say something, say something. He knows he should. But what the fuck is he supposed to say. The woman he's devoted most of his adult life to, just told him she'd killed his child. She didn't even tell him. Didn't give him the option. Didn't ask his permission. Didn't. Just like she didn't with Fred.

And for the life of him, he still can't find the words. He doesn't think they exist, not for this. Never for this. She's rambling on, something about money, and already having children, not his, and needing to concentrate on her job, and a better life, but he blocks her out, not caring for her reasons.

_You did what?_

There, he finally said something. Something is better then nothing, and it silenced her. She has the nerve to look guilty. Guilty. As if she didn't make this choice, as if she deserves the emotion.

_I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry._

Sorry, she's sorry. And he's supposed to accept this. He's supposed to take her in his arms, whisper words of comfort, tell her it's alright. But it isn't alright. It'll never be alright. And she knows this. She had to know this. Even before she made the decision. A conscious decision. She made an appointment for fuck sake, an appointment.

_I have to go, I…_

And he leaves, not having anything else to say. There is nothing else to say. She fucking lied to him.

And he doesn't know if he can forgive her.


End file.
